Sherlock's Lullaby
by Sandylee007
Summary: Sherlock is back from the dead and his relationship with John is developing. But it all comes to a brutal halt when John discovers that he's gravely ill. As time runs out John worries how Sherlock is going to survive without his blogger. SLASH JOHNLOCK ONESHOT CHARACTER DEATH


A/N: Okay. So, this idea has been sitting in my head for AGES now. It took me about five days to get this written. Not just because of the size (which is quite massive), but because as it turned out this was a bit of challenge to type out. You may discover why soon. (takes a breath)

DISCLAIMER: Oh, if only…! I had a dream of the series a while back but I suppose that it doesn't count. (sighs)

WARNINGS: CHARACTER DEATH. SLASH. Some language. Tissues?

Awkay… (gulps) I'm a bit nervous right now, so I'll just cut the chase before I change my mind. I REALLY hope that you'll enjoy this emotional ride!

* * *

**_Sherlock's Lullaby_**

* * *

The rest of the country was suspecting it long before the couple itself did. In the end it took only the slightest pulse to push Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson's relationship to the direction where it'd been headed since to day they moved in together. It seemed that they liked to do things backwards.

On one completely ordinary morning a year and a half after Sherlock's return from the dead and the chaos that followed John woke up from a perfectly good sleep to the sounds of clattering from the kitchen. With most people he wouldn't have been worried, only assumed that perhaps they were making some tea. But this was Sherlock, not most people. Sherlock, who should never – under any circumstances – be allowed into the kitchen unsupervised.

Getting up a little bit faster than his head would've found acceptable he stumbled his way to inspect the damage. The sight greeting him made him wince. "You'd better have a damn good explanation for this", he growled, rubbing his face with one hand. A oncoming headache at four thirty in the morning. Nothing uncommon.

Sherlock looked at him with unbelievably, infuriatingly sincere eyes and shrugged. "It's just an experiment, John." The detective frowned. "You don't look pleased."

For a second, two, three, John simply stared, not believing his ears. What in the world could one say in such a situation? Then he saw red. "What a brilliant deduction! You just…!"

John's oncoming rant was cut abruptly by a pair of lips crashing against his. At first he was too shocked – body and soul – to even twitch. But then, very slowly, he found himself melting. A tiny sound of contentment crawled up his throat as his lips began to respond, eagerly taking in Sherlock's taste.

When they finally broke the kiss for precious air Sherlock's eyebrow was arched. The detective licked his lips before speaking. "That was an experiment, too. You felt eager, for a straight man."

John shrugged. His fingers slipped effortlessly through Sherlock's while a rare smile took over his face, lighting up his eyes. "I'm your only exception, aren't I?" _In so many ways._ "It makes sense that you're mine."

Sherlock only smiled a bit manically as a response. And somehow that was all either one of them needed. Their own little moment of perfection.

Later that day they heard a quiet thud while cleaning up the mess. With a closer inspection they discovered a small bird that'd collided with their window. It appeared horribly small as it lay dead before their eyes. It was a tiny blessing, really, that neither of them managed to catch that occurrence as fate's whispered warning.

/

Two weeks later Sherlock frowned upon noticing the way John's nose wrinkled after the doctor took a sip of tea. "Another headache?" He asked although he could tell that his blogger had been having one all morning. _Again_.

John shook his head, even tried a tiny, brave smile. "The tea… just tastes funny, somehow."

A chill traveled down Sherlock's back, all the way to his spine. His mouth went dry. "That's the brand you always use."

John frowned. There was a second of silence. "I know."

Usually Sherlock wasn't one to turn a blind eye on things that bothered him. But this was _John_. And so he walked closer, giving the other man a lingering kiss. "Do I taste funny, too, then?"

This time John's smile and chuckle were honest. "No, you don't. You most certainly don't."

/

John had been in a war. After that he'd chased down criminals. He was by no means a coward. But somehow it'd felt much safer to not notice the signs that were right there. A week after the odd tasting tea his bubble of security burst violently.

While taping his report after a surgery John discovered that he couldn't find the words.

Cold rushed through his veins and a weight that took his breath away crashed onto his chest. But he refused to panic. Refused to let go of his bubble just yet.

So he picked up his phone and dialed numbers. His hand and voice shook pitiably. "Melanie, hi. It's me." He took a deep breath. It didn't help any. "Could you… do me a favor?"

Only a couple of days later he sat in Dr. Melanie Chapman's office, stared at the picture that was supposed to be his brain. Stared at the dark area that shouldn't have been there. It took all his might to hold back the tears.

" _… inoperable…_ "

" _… six months, at most… _"

"_I'm sorry._"

John didn't make it home until quite late that night. His heart broke a little bit when he discovered that Sherlock, who'd possibly been waiting for him or perhaps wandering around in that amazing Mind Palace, had fallen asleep on the couch. There were two mugs of already cold tea waiting.

John managed to pull a blanket to cover his dear detective. He even made it through the light kiss to the pale forehead. But then something definitely broke.

Inhaling desperate, gasping breaths he dashed to the bathroom, not wanting to wake up Sherlock. It wasn't until he was there he thrust as much of his fist as he could into his mouth and closed his eyes, then slid slowly to the floor and let the tears come. Muffled, painful sobs rocked his whole body.

/ _"I'm sorry."_ /

Yes, well, John was sorry, too.

/

After everything he'd seen, and with how long he'd known Sherlock, DI Greg Lestrade was rarely surprised. Yet upon leaving work on one particular, miserably rainy day he jumped with surprise when finding a person standing beside his car outside the building. He actually had to blink a couple of times before his eyes were convinced that he wasn't seeing things. "John?"

The doctor looked… very small and frail while standing there in pouring rain, with no umbrella to shield him. Greg had never seen anyone shake the way John did and he couldn't understand how the former soldier could still be standing. It didn't require Sherlock's observational skills to realize that something was wrong. Very, very wrong.

John tried to offer him a smile but it came out all wrong. So did the awkward wave. "Uh… Hi. I…" The doctor cleared his throat. "I was wondering, if you'd have the time to… talk."

Greg's eyes narrowed slightly. A small flare of fire went through his veins. "Alright. What did Sherlock do now?" If that idiot of a genius had outdone himself this time…

John shook his head much too quickly. The look in those eyes was nearly desperate. "No, this… This isn't about him. Or… I guess this kind of is, but…" The doctor's lips kept moving but nothing coherent came out.

Greg sighed and swallowed thickly, feeling unreasonably cold. In the end he made his decision and walked closer, so that his umbrealla was covering John as well. "C'mon", he half-murmured. "Let's get you inside before you catch your death."

Greg couldn't understand what he said wrong. But all of a sudden John was gasping, nearly hyperventilating, and as hard as the soldier fought several tears rolled. He was barely fast enough to catch John before the man would've dropped to the pavement.

Once he'd dragged his friend to the break room, for the sake of the doctor's dignity trying his best to avoid passing by too many people, Greg fell to the seat close to John and stared intently into those moist, glazed over eyes that appeared impossibly wide. And all of a sudden sheer terror took over. "John, what's wrong? Just… Tell me, please. Because honestly, you're scaring me."

Tell John did, in a deviously calm, perfectly even voice that was used to talking about tragedies. Explained that there was nothing any doctor could do. His eyes gazing somewhere far away John whispered that he was going to die.

Greg shuddered like he'd been shot, feeling sick to his stomach and so dizzy that sitting upright was practically impossible. This had to be some kind of a sick joke, right? But no. Nothing made any sense.

John cleared his throat, shoulders heaving like there'd been a ton's load on them. "Greg, do you…? Could you do me a favor?"

Greg nodded without a beat of hesitation. "Anything." This was one of his best friends. How could he not do whatever he could when…?

Finally John met his eyes. It wasn't until then he realized that the fear in them wasn't for the man himself. "I know that Sherlock and you have your moments, but… He's not going to be… alright, when I'm gone. I know because I've been there. So… Look after him, please. Take care of him."

Greg took a breath and coughed. Still his voice shook. "I'll try." That's all he could promise, because honestly… Who in the world could keep Sherlock from falling apart after the man's whole world had been stolen away? "But no one could ever keep him in line like you do. You do know that, right?"

John's tiny laugh had a jagged edge.

Still finding it a bit hard to breathe Greg got up, desperate to find something to do. Something to hang on to. The last time he felt that helpless he was a child. "Is… Is there anything else I can do for you?"

John wasn't looking at him anymore, instead stared at the rain falling outside. "Some tea would be nice. It was pretty cold out there."

Neither of them noticed that their conversation had been overheard. Right outside the room Mycroft Holmes stood, his eyes widened slightly with uncharacteristic stun. He knew that he should've gone inside, done something – _anything_. But as it turned out all courage drained from his veins.

And so he walked away with swift, soundless steps, trying to imagine a world without John Watson although the mere idea sickened him.

/

Four more days passed by. (Four precious, valuable, irreplaceable days. Days that'd never, ever come back again.)

The first thing Sherlock noticed was the limp. It'd been there, quite heavily, immediately after his return but a year did miracles. The limp faded away while John began to actually believe that Sherlock wouldn't leave him again. Now it was almost bad enough to require a cane.

The other signs weren't as obvious but after the first one they began to register. John, a man who could usually focus even in impossible situations, couldn't concentrate on anything anymore. The man was skipping basically every meal, for it seemed that there wasn't a single food that tasted pleasant anymore. The worst, however, were the red rimmed eyes. They were even more heartbreaking than the fake smiles, than the forced '_I'm fine, don't worry_' that'd become a daily mantra.

For once in his life Sherlock didn't have the slightest clue of what to do. And he hated it from the bottom of his heart. In the end desperate times called for desperate measures.

When John retreated to bed – at eight in the evening, which alone was worrying – Sherlock took his chance and made his way to the doctor's computer. Guessing the password was easy and soon enough he was going through the entire contents, his sharp eyes zooming around for even the slightest traces of clues. A frown appeared when he discovered a website John had visited a couple of days earlier.

John was… apartment hunting?

Sherlock swallowed, feeling sick to his stomach. Suddenly it all made sense to him. Why John trembled every time he touched the doctor. Why those smiles just didn't seem real anymore. Why John would leave their apartment for long periods of time, only to return looking like… well, a man who'd just been through a war.

John was going to leave him.

Sherlock must've been even deeper in his thoughts than he'd though because he didn't hear the steps. Didn't sense the presence. "This wasn't how you were supposed to find out."

Rage and grief flashing through at a dizzying speed Sherlock spun around to face his doctor's pale face. "Find out what? That you're leaving? That you're tired of all that I can't give you?"

"Sherlock…!"

Sherlock was shaking but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered now that he was losing John. "I get it, okay? I get it. I just… I thought that you'd be different." He felt and most likely looked weak. He _hated_ weakness in himself. As much as he raised his chin defiantly it didn't help with the stinging in his eyes. "You weren't supposed to leave." _Ever._

"Do you really think that I'd leave you if there was any other choice?" There were tears in John's eyes. In the eyes of a man who'd only ever broken in such a way after thinking that Sherlock was gone. "Sherlock, I… I'm dying! And until I'm gone I… I just can't stay here, and make you watch it."

It took long, longer than it should've, for those words to actually sink in. But oh, they did. Seeped into Sherlock's head like acid. Stole all breath from him. "What?" he gasped with all there was still left in him.

John's hand sneaked closer to his. (Later, when it was already hopelessly too late, Sherlock wished that he'd taken it. Held on and never let go.) The doctor swallowed convulsively and blinked furiously, not daring to look towards him. The fingers squirmed restlessly. "I have a brain tumor." Although it was barely a whisper those words were the loudest Sherlock had ever heard. "I… They think that I've only got six months left."

Dying. His best friend – his whole damn world – was dying. His heart was dying.

Sherlock stared and stared. John's lips moved but he couldn't hear a word. His breathing pattern became such that set flames under his ribcage. And in the end Sherlock did the only thing he could think of.

He turned around, walked out of the apartment and slammed the door.

/

"_Could you please get your brother out of here before he gets into any more of a trouble than he is at the moment?_"

Mycroft had received a lot of those calls during ungodly hours of the night but they were all before John. In an instant he knew what had changed. A sick feeling placed itself into the pit of his stomach.

Sherlock had found out, then, and reacted exactly the way John had probably feared.

The brothers were silent when Sherlock slumped into his car, reeking of blood, alcohol, sweat and – heaven forbid – tears. In the end Mycroft steeled himself with a deep breath before speaking. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Sherlock cast a moody look towards him. "You heard the old geezer. I never threw a punch. Those men just… didn't appreciate being analyzed honestly."

Most days Mycroft might've been baited into the bitter argument but not today. Especially not today. Instead he started the car and drove off, leaving behind the barely still standing bar that gave him chills.

"I wasn't talking about the barfight", he pointed out when they'd made it to a bigger street. He had a feeling that Sherlock knew but couldn't stand the silence any longer. Sherlock was _never_ this quiet.

Sherlock didn't respond and Mycroft sighed, trying to focus on the road. A couple of times his mouth opened but in the end he swallowed down the useless words. This was clearly one of those moments where no words were good enough.

He tried, though. "Sherlock, I'm…"

"Shut up." Sherlock was facing away, staring seemingly intently through the window. There was, however, no mistaking the way those shoulders quaked. "Shut up. He's not dead yet."

Reaching the apartment building seemed to take ages. Once he'd parked outside Mycroft glanced towards Sherlock, only to realize that his brother had passed out somewhere along the way. Perhaps it was better that way.

Quite as he'd expected John was wide awake when he dragged Sherlock in. Frantic eyes inspected the detective, gaining a pained look at the sight of bruises. "What happened?" The doctor looked and sounded exhausted. _Ill_. How in the world had he missed that before?

"A little… bar incident." Mycroft's mouth felt dry and he wasn't entirely sure of what he was supposed to say. "I think that he could use a bed right now."

In complete silence they helped Sherlock to the bedroom. Mycroft's chest tightened painfully when he observed how the doctor tucked his brother in gently, didn't miss the brush John gave Sherlock's hair. Nor did he miss the way Sherlock, even in his unconscious state, leaned towards the doctor's direction with a sigh of contentment.

Unable to bear any of it anymore Mycroft excused himself with a flimsy excuse and walked away, all those million things he would've wanted to say stuck in his throat.

He didn't manage to walk away fast enough to miss the muffled sob.

/

Days passed by, turned into weeks. Neither man left but the air in the apartment remained tense. John's health began to deteriorate with a terrifying speed. Crushing headaches, violent episodes of nausea and nosebleeds became almost daily occurrences.

It was no secret that Sherlock wasn't exactly gifted when it came to dealing with other people. He had no idea of what to do with John when the man was so ill. Against all reason he was terrified of bringing even more pain.

Sherlock didn't know how many hours he'd spent away, futilely trying to distract himself from thinking of the inevitable with a visit to a crime scene, when he came home to find the apartment completely dark. He frowned, his heartbeat speeding up. John wasn't supposed to be in bed that early.

"John?" he called out. No response. He swallowed laboriously, his hand moving towards the light switch. "John, I'll turn on the lights so I can see you."

"Don't. Please, don't." It was barely even a whisper. Sounded nothing like John. "Please."

Squinting his eyes to see in the dark Sherlock was able to discover a figure that'd slumped heavily to the floor. Alarm striking through him like a bolt of lightning he approached as quickly as he could, trying to assess his friend's condition. The grimace, wheezing breath and a hand that covered eyes even in the dark told enough.

How long had John been suffering like this while he'd been away?

The frown from before deepened. Sherlock's stomach dropped. "That bad?" A nod. "Have you taken anything?"

John shook his head cautiously. "Nothing really helps. I just… I need to wait it out."

Unable to stand seeing the doctor like that Sherlock spun around. "Hold still. I'll go and…" He was interrupted by a hand that took his wrist firmly, determinedly.

Finally their eyes met. John's were full of a plea. "Just… Hold me, silly. Okay?"

How was he supposed to say 'no' to that? Struggling furiously against the emotions that wanted to burst through Sherlock gathered his blogger carefully into his arms, held on tight while John did the same. Nothing more was spoken.

When morning came they woke up from the floor, sore and stiff but still feeling a great deal better than the night before. John's heart was still beating strongly against Sherlock's. Despite that they didn't dare to let go until the bathroom called a couple of hours later.

/

Later that evening, with Sherlock having retreated to what'd looked like some kind of a scientific experiment, John opened his computer and blog for the first time in days. There was a new guest book entry waiting for him.

'_Don't leave me._'

Ten minutes later John wiped his eyes and went to make some tea. A response to the entry he just discovered had been added.

'_I never will._'

/

They'd already lost almost four full months when John staggered to the bathroom, hands clasped to both sides of his head and unable to stiffle a moan of such pain Sherlock couldn't even imagine. Sherlock managed to take the total of three steps before he heard a thud that chilled blood into his veins. He'd never ran so fast in his life.

He'd never, ever forget how John looked on the bathroom floor, blood pouring from his nose and so pale that the doctor appeared lifeless.

In the hospital they took John away, refused to listen to Sherlock's snarled pleas. He was pushed into a waiting room with no words of comfort or sympathy, abandoned while those strangers had his whole world in their hands. In those moments of despair Sherlock took his cell phone but couldn't bring himself to message or call anyone.

After what felt like a lifetime of waiting a doctor finally appeared, a grim look on her face. The words she spoke weren't unexpected but cut deeper than any knife. John was still alive but his estimated life expectancy had been lowered from six to five months.

They were only given a one more month together.

When John finally woke up Sherlock was there, although he'd thought about running away a million times. The doctor didn't ask about the bandages that'd been wrapped sloppily to cover Sherlock's hands. Nor did John point out how hazy Sherlock's eyes were from the sedative that'd been pumped into the detective's system.

Instead John took his hand, softly and gently, then met his eyes. And finally didn't fight so damn hard to look brave. "Sherlock, I… Our first meeting… I can't remember it anymore. I can't get into my head how you looked, back then. And yesterday, when you went to the store, I couldn't remember your phone number. All the little things… They just keep disappearing. I keep losing myself, you, everything." The doctor looked away, the pain in those eyes something far beyond a simple headache. "I'm scared."

With John's shields so completely down Sherlock found his own lowering as well. He swallowed laboriously and squeezed John's hand as tightly as he possibly could. "So am I", he whispered.

/

Dr. Sarah Sawyer hadn't honestly cared about a lot of men during her life. And among those few John was special. That's why her whole heart twitched painfully when his case was introduced during the rounds and she heard just how little time he had left.

John, who looked unbearably out of place and vulnerable in a wheelchair, seemed surprised when she entered his hospital room. "Sarah? What…?"

She attempted to smile but it probably looked like a grimace. "If you're about to leave the hospital against your doctor's orders, at least let a doctor drive you and Sherlock."

Something was missing from John's polite smile. "Thank you, but…"

If she'd known that it was the last day she ever heard him speak she would've never had it in her to shush him.

/

The fourth month had advanced halfway when Sherlock woke up to the chilling realization that John's side of the bed was empty. Panic squeezed his chest so tightly that he gasped, struggling himself out of the bed far faster than would've been advisable. He'd only dashed into the living room before he found John.

John had decided to try and walk instead of using a wheelchair but slumped to the floor, right beside the couch. Crashed, really, on hands and knees as though having fallen for some sort of a prayer. And for the first time since the very beginning the doctor was crying.

Sherlock gulped, dread sending a nasty stab through him. His steps were slow and hesitant while he approached although he would've wanted to run as fast as he possibly could. "John? What's wrong?"

John looked at him with such sadness and despair that Sherlock wanted to cry as well. The doctor's lips opened but all that came out was incomprehensible muttering. Finally he understood.

The words had been lost.

Nothing in the world could've held Sherlock back at that very moment. With a couple of long, fast steps he made his way to John and fell down to his knees, never even noticing the ache the violent contact with the floor brought. John practically melted into his arms as soon as he touched the doctor. And so they sat, both holding on with absolutely all the might they could muster.

There, with John sealed protectively into his arms, Sherlock did something extremely rare. Something he hadn't done since he was a child. He fell apart completely and broke down into loud, absolutely heartbroken sobs that took his breath away. Cried from the bottom of the heart he wasn't supposed to have.

Because at that very moment he really, truly realized that he was going to lose John.

And there was nothing he could do about it.

/

As of that day it was clear that the time of goodbyes was at hand. Sherlock knew that soon enough John wouldn't be up to having any visitors. As much as he hated having the apartment infiltrated by people the detective decided to do this act of kindness for John's sake.

The selected day was Wednesday – somehow that was the clearest detail in Sherlock's head later on. There was a bizarre, almost serene quiet in the apartment while they stopped by one after another. Friends. Colleagues. Comrades. Everything from Harry's drunken sobs, Mycroft's firm nod and Mrs. Hudson's hug to the kiss Sarah planted to John's forehead was important, carried a load of meaning. Everyone said goodbye in their own special way. There wasn't a dry eye in the apartment.

In the end Sherlock decided that he needed air and dashed into the hallway. As it turned out he wasn't the only one with such plans. It was forever imprinted to his head how it looked like when Greg broke down to tears. For once in his life Sherlock wanted very much to do the same thing.

/

Five months were up. And Sherlock found himself missing John's voice terribly. Found himself missing a million little things already, even before it was all over.

He couldn't bring himself to think of how damn much he'd be longing, when…

One morning he woke up to a strange feeling that someone was watching him. Usually such a feeling would've bothered him but at the moment he was too content to care. Shifting slightly he discovered John looking back at him.

Without being called a tiny smile appeared to his face. "Hey. You had a pretty good night last night." No pain or nausea, or bleeding. Nights like that were a blessing.

John smiled as well, planted a kiss to his lips. So perhaps the doctor had lost words. But no matter. With them actions had always spoken the loudest.

It wasn't until after the second kiss Sherlock felt something that hadn't been there for months. He blinked once, then looked at the doctor. "Are you… sure that it's a good idea?" Good grief, his body mind were willing but… "I mean…"

Those lips attacked his again, uncompromising. John pressed against him, allowing him to feel the hardness. All objections died out.

It was quiet, tender and beautiful. It was perfect. It was also the last time they made love.

/

On the day they hit the six months limit Sherlock slipped a strikingly beautiful, white gold ring onto John's left ring finger while they were resting on the couch. No words were needed for they both understood. A couple of hours later John fell asleep in his arms.

In the morning they woke up together, both feeling like they'd won a war.

/

At first they were only supposed to have six months. Then five. In the end fate gave seven and a half.

One summer evening John woke up from a long nap feeling nauseous and exhausted. But the headache… It was gone. His head was fuzzy and it was hard to think clearly.

Time, he realized, was running out.

Hearing him moving on the bed Sherlock appeared to the doorway instantly, a far too often present frown firmly in place. "Are you okay? Do you need medication, or a bucket?"

John shook his head, his chest aching for the pain in those eyes. Hating the fact that he couldn't find the words he gestured for the detective to come closer. Sherlock didn't hesitate to obey. He inhaled the taller man's scent, imprinted it to the back of his head. Scared to death that it'd disappear as well.

He'd already lost so many precious memories. But only from his head. His heart would never forget, wherever he was headed.

Sherlock looked at him with some confusion. "What do you want me to do? Do you… want to go somewhere?"

John nodded, unable to keep himself from smiling at how easily his best friend – a self declared sociopath – understood him. He shifted as close to the other man as he could and pointed upwards. It was ridiculously hard to keep his eyes open.

Sherlock's frown deepened. Disapproval appeared into those eyes while understanding dawned. "John, I'm not taking you to the rooftop again. You haven't been able to make it even to the bathroom for a week. I'm not taking the risk of making you feel worse."

Despair taking over John grabbed Sherlock's hand. _Please…!_ He couldn't understand why this was so important. He put his faith in Sherlock's ability to figure it out.

In the end Sherlock sighed. "Fine. But if your doctor finds out and scolds me again I'm going to put the blame on you."

John hated how easily Sherlock lifted him up – how little was there left of him? Finally giving in to the temptation he closed his eyes and leaned close, holding on to the detective the best as he could. The rhythmic steps lulled him into oblivion.

That was until he felt a tug. "Hey, open those eyes for me." There was more than a little bit urgency in Sherlock's voice. "You asked to get here so wake up to see this."

John managed to pry his eyes halfway open. What he found made him smile. There, on top of them, the sky was darkening in the wake of night.

Sherlock hummed, pulling him a little bit closer. "Is it worthy of your expectations?"

John nodded, his eyes shining. Yes – and no. It was more than that.

They lay there in each other's arms, watching how a star after another lit up the dark sky. Right after Sherlock's smile that was the most beautiful thing John had ever seen. He fell asleep with a smile on his face, his hand firmly in Sherlock's.

At some point of the night Sherlock fell asleep as well, despite all resistance. A few hours later sun showed up, wiping the stars from sight. Only Sherlock woke up.

/

Sherlock didn't surprise anyone with showing up to John's funeral highly intoxicated. Later he only remembered the awful scent of someone's far too strong perfume. Along with the fact that there were a lot of people, most of them such he hadn't even met. It wasn't a surprise – a heart like John's was bound to touch a lot of people. And of course, the clearest of all, he recalled every single detail of the coffin where they'd put John. The sight made him want to throw up.

People tried to talk to him. Everyone seemed determined to offer him their own words. He wasn't in the mood. There was only one person he would've wanted to talk to and that man would never come back again. He didn't want to hear anyone telling him that 'It's going to be alright'.

At some point people gave up trying to talk, even gave up on their attempts to coax him out of the cemetery. Sherlock barely noticed. The world around him didn't make any sense.

It didn't make any sense that he was standing before John's grave. It didn't make any sense that his heart was still beating while John's wasn't. He'd never felt so angry and badly betrayed in his entire life.

And there, more completely and throughoutly alone than ever in his life, Sherlock howled at the top of his lungs.

/

In the end it was Mycroft who came to collect his brother, who'd slumped to his knees on the dirt. To someone it might've looked like the detective was praying. He knew better.

For a moment Mycroft thought about simply hauling his brother from the ground but then decided against it. Instead he stood beside Sherlock, not all that surprised to discover that for the second time that day his eyes didn't feel entirely dry. There, beside his grieving brother, his mind whispered what he'd never found the words to speak out.

_Please, John… I know how much Sherlock meant to you. So… Please. A one more miracle. Don't just leave him like this._

Neither brother spoke a word. Three hours later he took Sherlock home. The door was slammed at his face before he got the chance to ask if the detective wanted some company.

/

Early in the following morning Mrs. Hudson went to inspect the apartment upon hearing a disturbing amount of noise. The sight she found broke her heart.

A great deal of the apartment's contents had been trashed, like a hurricane had swept through it. There were two mugs of already cold tea waiting in the kitchen. And there, at the table, sat Sherlock, eyes painfully red and squeezing the table so hard that knuckles had turned white.

"He's… not coming back home, is he?" It was nothing more than a whisper. She heard all too clearly.

She swallowed thickly and blinked rapidly, wiping inexistent moisture from her cheeks. "Oh, dear… I'm so sorry." As though that would've made any difference.

Sherlock nodded slowly. His mouth opened once but he didn't utter a word, didn't even look at her. She'd never seen a living and breathing man look so very dead.

/

During the dark, bitter hours of that night there was a new addition to the guest book of John's blog.

'_I HATE YOU._'

/

Two months without John passed by and much to his own amazement – or perhaps disappointment – Sherlock was still alive. As far as one could call his existence living. He didn't leave the apartment unless he absolutely had to and he spent his days walking through the rooms, looking for something that'd never be there again. Nights were the worst part. Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he slept properly. Perhaps it was the night when John…

During the lonely hours of one sleepless night Sherlock began to go through John's things. Because it had to be done eventually, didn't it? He opened drawers and closets, his heart aching when John's familiar scent flooded to him. Every single item of clothing still smelled of John. It was like the doctor had never truly left. For a moment he managed to delude himself with that thought until the reality came crashing down on him.

Sherlock's heart-wrenching job interrupted by the sound of something hard falling. He blinked twice upon discovering a tape recorder. A piece of Sellotape that said '_To Sherlock_' had been attached to it. After a moment of hesitation Sherlock pressed 'play', almost dreading what he'd discover.

And all of a sudden John's voice filled the room.

"_Hey, Sherlock. I knew that you'd find this eventually._" John cleared his throat. "_So, uh… __The fact that you have this means that I'm gone. I'm so sorry. I never, ever wanted to cause you such pain. But sometimes fate doesn't give us what we want._" Sherlock wiped his eyes and opened his mouth but John was faster. "_I'm losing a little bit more words every day. I'm terrified that one day I'll lose your name, too. That I won't be able to comfort you through the worst of this. I decided to make this tape while I still can. Because… There's still something I need to say to you. Something I need you to hear, especially now._" Was that a sob? "_I love you, Sherlock. And whatever you may believe I'll never, ever leave you. I'll be with you until the day you pull your last breath and then I'll be right here waiting for you. Whatever 'here' is. Because as much as I was your heart you are mine as well. I've never been as happy and content as I was with you, and I'm grateful for every single day that we had together. Even though on most days you nearly drove me mad. You made me the man that I was supposed to be._" The doctor cleared his throat. "_So… Like I said, I love you, and I'll be waiting for you. But don't hurry. You still have a million adventures left before your time comes. I'll be with you during each and every single one of them. __So… __Bye, for now, my friend. And thank you for everything._"

For the longest time Sherlock sat there. Just sat, his eyes far more moist than he would've liked and shaking so badly that if he hadn't been sitting from the beginning he would've fallen down. But then, very slowly, he smiled for the first time since John's death.

He listened to the recording for five more times and eventually fell asleep, the smile still remaining through tears he was unaware of.

/

The following morning the guest book of John's blog gained its second entry since the doctor's death.

'_Just so you know, wherever you are, I return the sentiment. Thank you for everything. I hope that I'll find you one day. I miss you._'

/

Fifty years later, surrounded by friends and photographs of a eventful and fully lived life, Sherlock Holmes fell asleep for the very last time. There was a tape recorder in his hand and a smile none of the room's occupants had ever seen before on his face. As Sherlock left they could've sworn that a warm breath crossed the room.

Sherlock's eyes opened, no longer clouded by all the decades that'd passed him by, to discover an amazing white light that seemed to be everywhere. Blinking with astonishment he raised his hand to discover no wrinkles.

"Impossible…!"

"Nothing's impossible." A familiar hand reached out towards him. "So, Sherlock… Are you ready for a new adventure?"

With a wide smile on his face Sherlock accepted the hand.

* * *

_Just give it one more try to a lullaby_  
_And turn this up on the radio_  
_If you can hear me now_  
_I'm reaching out_  
_To let you know that you're not alone_  
_And if you can't tell, I'm scared as hell_  
_'Cause I can't get you on the telephone_  
_So just close your eyes_  
_Oh, honey here comes a lullaby_  
_Your very own lullaby_  
_Oh, honey here comes a lullaby_  
_Your very own lullaby_

(Nickelback: "Lullaby")

* * *

**_End._**

* * *

A/N: Okay… (takes a deep breath) That was quite emotional. Not easy to write, I'll give you that, but I just had to let it out.

So, the ball's in your court. How did this turn out? Any good, at all? PLEASE, leave a note and let me know! This is one of the most heartbreaking pieces I've ever shot out into the world so it'd mean the world to hear from you.

Thank you, so much, for reading this monster!

Much love, and take care!


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